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Pray God may grant for all time to be,
That never again the world may see,
Paris, such woe as was wrought in thee.

 

What though a hundred years are gone
Since the Bastille was lost and won,
And the great slaughter was begun?

 

Still the whole world it stands aghast,
Aye, though a century is past,
On history's page the mark will last.

 

Time cannot wipe away that stain,
While memory lasts it must remain,
Yea! France; and all thy tears are vain.

 

For, never since that fatal hour,
When, mad with blood, thou hadst the power
To slay of thine own soil the flower,

 

Hast thou found peace. It may not be;
Strive as thou wilt, thou can'st not free
Thyself; the guilt yet weighs on thee.

 

Will the time come when thou shalt stand
Before God's throne, thou lovely land,
And He shall wash from off thy hand

 

The blood-red dye that stains it yet,
And bid all nations to forget
That ever such a mark was set

 

Upon thee, France? And oh, that thou
Didst but in sorrow kneel; and now
Show to all lands that thou know'st how

 

With deepest sorrow this sad year to keep,
On thy bowed head repentance sore to heap,
For thy great sin, which was so dark and deep.

* * * * *

But no; the time is not yet come when thou
Wilt stoop to bind the sackcloth on thy brow.